


Hey Jude (Refrain)

by Alyndra, cassiopeia7



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Community: spn_reversebang, Cussing, F/M, Fanart, Gen, IDENTITY SHENANIGANS, M/M, Nostalgia, Pre-Series, Season/Series 12, Time Travel, Winchester Family Dynamics, gencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 22:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyndra/pseuds/Alyndra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia7/pseuds/cassiopeia7
Summary: How can Mary ever catch up with everything she's missed in her boys' lives? Sam finds their grandfather's time travel spell in the Men of Letters library.Of course no one would use such a thing without a very good reason.





	Hey Jude (Refrain)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** This story contains slight Wincest. Gen fans will find [this version](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12899967/1/Hey-Jude-Refrain) more comfortable. Wincest fans, however, may still not get enough here to satisfy. I'm just gonna wave at everybody! (Spoiler: underage Dean propositions Sam without knowing who he is; Sam declines.) 
> 
> Set in early Season 12 and also in 1994. Written for [SPN_Reversebang](https://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) on Livejournal.
> 
> All the amazing praise in the world to my artist for this collaboration, [Cassiopeia7](https://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/), who went above and beyond: her initial art prompt was inspiring from the first second I saw it, she was a joy to work with, and then she created [even more wonderful art](https://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/607226.html) for the story! Go love her!
> 
> Also thanks to [Akintay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story) for excellent last-minute betaing, quite a few things would make significantly less sense without her aid!
> 
> Bonus thanks to [dancing_adrift](https://dancing-adrift.dreamwidth.org/) for playing sounding board as I flailed around in the early stages of plotting, and consistently cheering me on as the word count went up and up!

Sam's eyes narrowed as he stared at the page in the book on the table in front of him. "Dean!" he yelled. "Found something!"

"Yeah?" Dean appeared in the archway to the library, wiping his hands dry. It was a kitchen towel this time instead of an oil rag, so he'd been cooking. "A hunt?"

"No," Sam said, as Mary came through the archway too, finger stuck in John's old journal to mark her place. "A spell."

Dean rolled his eyes, interest gone. "Why mess around with that crap if we don't have to? Close it. Hey, I'm making kebabs for dinner, it's gonna be awesome!"

"Not a spell I want to try out, Dean," Sam clarified, ignoring … although, hey. Ever since they'd learned the hard way that Mary was at her best far from the kitchen, Dean had been going above and beyond as though to make up for it. "Kebabs?"

"Meat on a stick over a fire, Sammy. What's not to like?"

"Because you don't get to char dead things enough for your day job…" Sam muttered, grinning despite himself. "Hope you've got vegetables, too."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Dean said, placing his hand over his heart. "Mom, would I neglect vegetables?"

Mary was looking between them but took a moment to answer. "I think I saw him with some onions half an hour ago, if that helps. What spell?"

"Glad you ask," Sam smiled at her. "Old Men of Letters book of tricks here," he explained, turning it to face Mary rather than Dean. "I found these two charms in their mission supplies, and wanted to look up what they did. This book says they’re for anti-recognition. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He pointed to the page he had open. “This one's a time-travel spell. Blood to tap soul-energy, an angel feather, tear of a dragon, a pinch of the sands of time; it's only good for visiting blood relatives, and there's no way to specify a date, so the precision is a crapshoot. But I think it's something we've seen before." Sam flicked a glance at Dean, who was quick on the uptake.

"You're thinking Henry," Dean said. "Our grandfather," he added, for Mary's benefit. Hey, there could be more than one Henry.

"John's father?" she asked. "He disappeared when John was young—oh dear God, you're saying he time-traveled?"

"To four years ago," Sam confirmed. "Lost his life taking out the Knight of Hell on his ass."

"How do you think we found this place?" Dean asked. "Men of Letters bloodline married into a long line of hunters, who'd have thought?"

Mary got very pale and sat down with a thump. "I wasn't trying to—I was trying to get away from all—" she waved a hand in the air, helplessly vague. "This. Everything."

"Aw, no, we know, Mom," Dean reassured her, taking a half-step closer like he wanted to rub her shoulder, but then hesitating, uncomfortable. They were still relearning each other. "Fate's a bitch. Cranky librarian who's tried to kill us, too, actually. Whole game was rigged from the start."

Sam used every inch of his leg length to kick him under the table. Mary didn't need to know about the Cupid. Dean continued with only a beat to acknowledge Sam. "Anyway, this would all still be moldering away if it hadn't worked out. So, no complaints here."

"Wouldn't you rather…" Mary hesitated, formulating the words. "What about a normal life?"

Sam snorted, but gently. "I dreamed of it, a long time ago. But there was never any chance of it happening. This, what we have right here? This is the best we've ever had it," he said, waving around them at the bunker with its books and weapons hanging on the walls.

Mary looked around. She looked at the hunting journal she still held in her hands, and at Sam's feet, which had been a burned, bloody mess when they finally found him and brought him back. She tried to be impassive but her flinch was still obvious. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," Dean said. "Road getting here was rough, but there's no place we'd rather be. C'mon, both of you, why don't you leave all these old books and help me fix dinner? Might as well be chopping onions if you wanna talk about feelings and shit."

Sam snorted again, but agreeably pushed his chair back. "Mom?"

"You go ahead, I think I'll read some more," she said.

"Sure. If you need anything …" Sam hesitated.

"Go on," she waved. "I just want to think."

She had been listening absently to the low, comfortable buzz of her grown sons' voices for some time when they cut off too abruptly to be a normal lull in conversation. She was half out of her chair even before she heard a gravelly, British, and _unfamiliar_ voice drawl, "Hello, boys."

She crossed the library at a speed only held back by her need to be quiet, and was in the hallway outside the kitchen in time to hear Dean drawl back, "We really need to update the wards on this place to keep the riffraff out, don't we, Sam?"

Sam was positioned to be able to see Mary over the stranger's head; he was short, wearing a clean black suit, and had his back to the door. His attention was on Dean, and Sam took advantage to catch Mary's eye and deliberately shake his head at her. She backed out of sight of the doorway, taking even more care to be silent than before.

The kitchen smelled like rotten eggs. Sulfur. Brimstone.

Demon.

Sam was right to warn her off, of course. A demon would require far more than an ordinary knife or gun to kill. She hoped that Sam and Dean could stall it, keep it talking long enough for her to get a better one. An angel blade should work: she remembered Dean saying that it could kill nearly anything. That had to include demons, right? And better yet, she knew there was one stored in the Impala's trunk. She silently backed down the hallway. How good was demon hearing? What was a safe distance at which she could run?

She ran, and then with the angel blade clenched in her fist, she ran half the distance back that she'd run away; she dared not sprint farther in case the demon had ventured out of the kitchen. She went the rest of the hallway at an agonizing stalk, listening hard for what had happened in her absence.

"Now that I'm satisfied you're not going to be starting Apocalypse round … what are we on now? Four?" the strange demon was saying, "…over your brother getting kidnapped and tortured, I really ought to be going. Do let me know if you change your minds."

"You sure you're not angling for anything else?" Dean sounded somewhat baffled and suspicious.

"Maybe he's hoping we'll start a fight with the Brits because they've been messing with his operations," Sam suggested.

"Hardly," the demon snorted. "I just feel if anyone's getting to tie you to a chair and make you scream pretty, Sam, I ought to have my fingers in their pudding. Or your pudding. Mm…"

"Dean's about to start tickling *your* gooey bits if you haven't got anything more to say, Crowley," Sam said, not sounding angry so much as…exasperated.

"Ooh, promise?" There was a filthy leer in 'Crowley's' voice. "I've heard a few stories about how good you are with a blade."

Mary paused, listening right outside the doorway. What did that mean? Somehow it didn't sound like Crowley meant throwing one accurately.

"Don't wink at me, you're not staying for dinner," Dean said. "Don't you have all the minions of Hell to get back to? They have to suffer through listening to you, right?"

"King of Hell, perks of the job," the demon agreed. "Very well, I'll be going then."

It was now or never. Mary drew a breath and stepped into sight of the occupants of the room, angel blade ready.

Crowley's back was still to her. Good; she might actually pull this off. Sam was the only one who saw her; only he was urgently shaking his head 'no' at her.

What?

For a moment, she hovered without knowing what she would do, and then she lowered her blade and stepped back, knowing she wouldn't make it back around the doorway before he turned and saw her…

And then with a snap of his fingers he was gone, air puffing in to fill the space he'd occupied, and Sam and Dean were both looking at her.

"King of Hell?" She asked faintly, not really sure she wanted to know the answer. Not really sure where she should start asking.

"A position he's got because he threw his lot in with ours to keep Lucifer from destroying the world, so yeah," Dean said, "long story."

"He's got our back when it counts," Sam said, "…well, sometimes. But he gets people we care about killed. Semi-regularly.” Sam closed his eyes a moment, then looked at her again. “So, I didn't want him knowing about you yet, if we could help it."

"I…see," said Mary. She didn't at all. Trusting a demon? She may have agreed to a deal with Azazel to save John’s life, but she’d never have considered one an ally, never have spoken to or about one with that slight fondness tinging their exasperation. Her father would be rolling in his grave; he’d have exorcised any demon he saw without hesitation. She was these men's mother, but did she know them? Would she ever, really? How much had they been through without her?

Dean had turned back to chopping up peppers as though the King of Hell dropping by for a chat was an everyday occurrence, while Sam was precariously perching one butt-cheek and a foot on the counter, casually keeping an eye on Dean but most of his attention on her. As though her level of freaking out was more important than killing the most powerful demon on Earth had been.

"Look, I know this is difficult, that there's a lot you weren't around for," Sam started, but she waved a hand to cut him off.

"Don’t...I mean, I can't know you, right? Not like I should."

Dean had stopped chopping.

"I've been trying to read John's journal to get some of it, to try to catch up, but he wasn't writing about what it was like to watch you grow up. Werewolf lore and how to kill vetala and every damned salt and burn that crossed his radar, but not what makes you _you_. I don't know how to make up for what I've missed."

"I mean, hunting's pretty much been our lives," Dean suggested, laughing slightly as though he were trying to joke, but it fell flat.

"He had a storage unit," Sam volunteered, "in New York. All sorts of childhood memorabilia, the stuff you're looking for. But it all burnt down when Zachariah tried to hard-sell us on life as an angel condom." He winced as if he only realized how bad that sounded after it left his mouth. "Sorry."

"No, I…" Mary started, wanting to smooth the awkwardness automatically, but she didn't know what she could say. Sorry for wanting to know? She couldn't be. "It's not your fault," she said, after too long a pause.

"It's the hand we got dealt," Dean said. "You too."

She quirked her mouth up. "'Take a sad song, and make it better.'"

"C'mere," he held out his arms for a hug. She went into them. "Sammy, you too, bring it in."

* * *

Dean paused outside Mary's room later, after they'd all turned in and should have long been asleep. He could hear quiet sobbing coming from inside the room. She was trying not to be heard; if he weren't practically pressing his ear to the door, he wouldn't have known.

Heartsick, he drifted down the hallway to Sam's room. Sam wasn't asleep either; his door was open, and when Dean's shadow filled it, he saw Sam sit up in bed.

"Fuck this," Dean said out loud. "We're going on a family roadtrip. Sam, where did these dweebs keep the sands of time?"

Sammy was trying to study, which Dean could put up with for a reasonable amount of time while he occupied himself researching the driver’s license age limits of all fifty states. Not that they’d ever had a case in Hawai’i, but you never knew. Maybe he should research how to ferry a car there, just in case it ever came up: Dean was hazy on the details, but he thought you weren’t supposed to bring your weapons with you on a plane. One more reason never to fly if he could help it.

He’d see what the library had on ferries tomorrow. Maybe even play with one of the computers there, to see if it could point him to any books he’d missed: that could be fun.

In the meantime, Sammy had definitely been focused on things other than Dean for too long. “I am almost positive,” Dean announced, thumping his last book onto his stack, “that in one month, I will be able to legally drive in every state in the country.”

Sammy rolled his eyes without looking up. “You already legally drive. We spent three months in the butt of nowhere, Wyoming, so you could get your license on your fourteenth birthday.”

“Yeah, but not every state accepted it when I was fourteen,” said Dean. “Or I could only drive if I was passing through, not if I was staying there. In one month and three days, I’ll be sixteen. All that will be behind me, and I’ll drive anywhere I want, as far as the roads will take me…”

“Yeah, not far enough,” Sammy muttered, not quietly enough.

Dean decided what Sammy really wanted was a noogie. He followed thought promptly with action.

“Hey,” Sammy yelped, “Quit it, Dean! I’m trying to…”

“Trying to what, huh, Sammy? Trying to study?”

“Not anymore,” Sammy admitted, surveying his books mournfully from the floor, where Dean was sitting on him. “Dean? Do you think Dad’s really going to want to leave tomorrow?”

Dean got off him and stood up. Not this again. “Probably,” he said. “Today was the last day of the semester, you’re the only eleven-year-old in the world even opening his schoolbooks for the next two weeks, and I know Dad’s been looking for a hunt. If he had one lined up we’d be gone already.”

Dean suspected Dad wasn’t looking for one as hard as he could, because Dean knew that if he was old enough to drive, he was old enough to hunt. It was just that Dad hadn’t admitted that yet. It was only a matter of time, though. Dean was wearing him down: the last time Dean had bugged him about taking him with on whatever his next hunt was, Dad had just grunted and totally ignored him.

Definitely progress. He was counting down every hunt Dad went on now, knowing soon he’d be out there too: being a hero, making a difference.

“Do you think you could talk him into staying here in Rockville, just for a few days?” Sammy asked, and Dean frowned.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because Stephanie invited me over to her family’s house again, for Christmas Eve dinner.”

Dean immediately scowled. “And why would she do that, huh? Have you been running around telling everybody how lame we are?”

“No!” Sammy said. “We’re friends, okay! Thanksgiving was fun, and it’s not like our family ever does holidays properly, anyway! We’d just be spending Christmas Eve in a motel on the road somewhere we’ve never been before and will never come back to…”

“Yeah, that’s called adventure, Sammy, lots of kids would be jealous…”

“I’m tired of not having any friends, Dean! When we never spend two holidays in a row in the same town…”

“Christmas and New Year’s,” Dean said promptly, smirking.

“If Dad’s not off trying to get himself killed before the semester starts!”

“That’s not fair,” Dean said quietly, and Sammy shut up. “Dad’s always really careful, you know how much he researches before every time he goes.”

“I know,” Sammy grumped. “I’ve been helping.”

“It’d just be better if he had a partner, is all,” Dean said. “He’d be a lot safer then.”

“It’d be better if he’d spend Christmas staying home with us,” Sammy said, but the heat had gone out of his argument.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said. “Good luck convincing him. Wanna stay up late and watch Miracle on 34th St, since there’s no school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sammy agreed. He got up and settled down on his bed.  A lot of kids didn’t get to have a TV in their bedrooms, either, but Dean had found a little old broken one a few towns ago and managed to fix it, so he got to put it where he wanted to.

“Here comes Santa Claus…” Dean sang off-key. Sammy wouldn’t care, he had no ear for tune. Dean crossed the room to turn the TV on (it hadn’t come with a remote) and once it was going, settled back down to watch.

Even if they did leave tomorrow, it never took them all that long to pack.

* * *

Several hours later, a rattling shook the whole apartment. There was a flash of light in the bathroom. There were a few muffled thumps and a barely-audible voice muttered something, and then the bathroom door opened and a figure stepped out into Dean and Sam’s bedroom.

* * *

"Don’t move, or I blow your head off," Dean said, voice still too high to be properly intimidating, but without an ounce of joking in it. "Who are you and what do you want?"

Mary was frozen. He’d gotten behind her before she’d even opened the door. She’d be a fool to doubt the presence of a gun pointed at her. "Don't shoot," she said, "I mean no harm."

"Turn so I can see you," Dean ordered.

Mary didn't move.

"Sammy!" he called. He flipped on the light and moved cautiously to the side so he could see her face. "What…?"

Sammy appeared from cover behind the other bed, sleep-tousled but holding his own ‘45. He looked to Dean for his cue and stopped well outside of Mary's reach.

"You—you're not—" Dean's eyes narrowed on Mary's face. "You're a shifter!"

"Dean." John's deep and familiar voice sounded from the doorway of their room. "Let me handle this.”

Dean backed around so that he wasn’t standing between John and the intruder that was wearing his Mom’s face. He glanced at Sammy—checking to make sure he wouldn’t be in Dad’s line of fire, either—but Sammy knew what to do. They were clear.

“Whoever you are. Come here." John’s voice was steady and controlled. He made eye contact with Mary. She couldn't read what he was thinking, but he tilted his head toward the door he’d entered by. She walked through it, nearly close enough to reach him but not trying to, heart hammering, casting one last glance back at Sammy and Dean.

He walked behind her all the way down the hallway to the back door and out into the parking lot. "Shifter's not a bad thought. You mind proving you're not?" His voice was still rock-steady, but it was the kind of steady that was cauldrons of emotions roiling under tightly sealed lids. She knew because she was the same, feelings welling up almost too much to function through, but you couldn't get off your game when you were a hunter. And whether she liked it or not, hunter was what they both were now.

"Sure," she said, and held out her arm for him. He had a silver knife on him; it wasn't large. She didn't flinch when he made the tiniest cut possible on the ball of her thumb. "It's me, John."

He looked away. She followed his gaze: the familiar lines of the Impala reflected glints of light into the night, a few parking spaces away. “What kind of car did you originally ask me to buy?” he asked, holding the knife towards the ground but not putting it away. Not yet.

She laughed a little. “Car? It was a tan 1964 Volkswagon, and it was enormous. We could’ve lived out of that thing. But then you came back with this gleaming black racehorse and such a glow in your eye… I knew not to make you choose between me and another lady,” she teased.

He shook his head. She could see his control faltering, as he tried to reconcile wanting to believe with not being able to trust something too good to be true.

"How could this be possible?" he said hoarsely. "We buried you. I found out—about hunting. I found enough about your family to figure out you must have known about all of this. But nothing I’ve ever seen should let something like this be true. Even if we forget about coming back from the dead, how could you find us?"

"It's a spell," she said. She wanted to reach up and put her hand against his face, but she didn’t think she could, yet. "A time-traveling spell. It's tied to blood kin; it would have brought me to them wherever they were."

He let out a breath, a very long breath. It sounded like one he’d held for years. "Listen—November 2nd, 1983—there's an attack. A fire. Can you change it? Can you go back and fix it?"

This time she did reach up to cup his face. "I'm sorry. It doesn't work like that, John. I wish I could." Her eyes were wet.

The hope that had begun to shine in him dulled again, and he pulled her into his arms, tucked his face into her hair.

Just being held by him was like being in Heaven, warm and solid and it was like knowing if she stayed there forever, nothing bad could happen.

"Tell me about the boys," she begged, unwilling to let go or pull away yet.

He gave a laugh that was half sob. "They're amazing, they're gonna grow up so good, Mary, Dean won't shut up about being able to drive everywhere once he turns sixteen, and Sammy's lobbying for staying here through Christmas because of some girl he’s into. He’s too young for that crap, I swear, they’re both growing up so fast. I just want to wrap them up and keep them safe, you know?”

“I know,” she murmured. “Blink and you miss it.”

He didn’t understand what she meant, but he continued. “Um, Sam's finally getting over his stage magician phase, but he's replacing it with geeking out about True Crime shit, FBI's Most Wanted list and all that. Dean's a real good shot with anything you want to name…"

Mary shuddered a little. She knew what reality was now, she knew there'd never been a real chance that her boys would grow up without having to learn about hunting, but Dean had just been pointing a gun at her head ten minutes ago, and there was a little war going on inside her between the part that was fiercely proud of him for reacting well to unexpected threats in the middle of the night, and the part of her where the dreams she'd had, of a peaceful childhood for her family, were bleeding out, still twitching on the floor.

John felt her reaction. Once he could have guessed what she was thinking without much trouble; she didn't know if he still could, but he hurried onto a different tack. "C’mon,” he tugged her over to the Impala. She did feel better buttressed by the solid black curves of a friend. 

"Sammy's doing well in school, he gets almost straight A's, and Dean does well enough, too, not as good but he's not flunking anything. He could do better if he put in the effort, but he thinks he's gotta take care of the rest of us or we’ll misplace our own heads. He's a good kid. They both are, Mary, it's been hard without you, so hard, but we're gonna make it, we're gonna get the thing that killed you and make the world safe for other families to grow up normal, I promise."

"Good," she said fiercely, "you're right, you're not safe until it's dead."

"What is it?" He whispered. "Did you know?"

Shit. She had to be careful what she said. Could she tell him? Would that change anything? "A demon," she whispered. "A powerful one, with yellow eyes."

He nodded, unsurprised. A demon had to have been an option he'd considered before, even if he hadn't known for sure. "Did you…know it was coming?"

She gulped a breath. “I met him once before,” she said. “It killed my parents.”

“Was it...Did you know what it wanted?” he asked carefully.

“It wanted Sammy,” she said. “I didn’t know until it was there, John, I swear…” It would be so easy to break down and let hysterical sobs overwhelm her.

"Shhh. It didn't get Sammy. And it won't. I won't let it."

Dean and his little brother had just snuck out of their apartment, to eavesdrop on their dad while he interrogated the strange intruder, when two large men came out of nowhere and planted themselves in their way. "Anything we can help you boys with?" the tall, shaggy one asked mildly.

"What? No,” Dean said, suspicious. “Who are you?"

"State troopers," the shorter of the two said. He wasn’t really short. They loomed very effectively while they pulled out badges in a well-rehearsed sort of way. "Got a call about an intruder somewhere around here, you boys seen anything?"

"No, and if we had, we probably still wouldn't tell you," Dean shot back. "You're not wearing uniforms, those badges could totally be fake, and…" he pointed triumphantly to the taller one's unsuccessful attempt to conceal a smile, "...you lie like a rug."

"You sound like a hunter's kid," Not-Much-Shorter said. "Bingo."

"Now, seriously, what'd you see?" The giant asked.

Dean exchanged glances with Sammy. Normally he was supposed to stall until he could get himself and Sammy to Dad. But Dad was already dealing with one unknown threat, and these two looked big and tough enough to take even Dad down, especially if it turned out they were actually on the shifter's side (or whatever it was). "Sure," he smiled, all teeth. "But how do I know I can trust you?" He made sure Sammy stayed behind his arm.

Medium Tall rolled his eyes but flicked a silver knife out of his pocket. He casually made cuts on his and his partner's arms, then held it out to the boys with raised eyebrows. "Want a turn?"

Dean shuddered a bit. He didn't want to. "No thanks. We're the ones who are supposed to be living here," he said.

"Actually," Sammy said. "It's probably a good idea for us to do it too. They need to know they can trust us, right?" He gave the two grown-ups searching looks. "Only, we should clean the knife off first. I'm going to go get some stuff, okay?"

He backed back into their room. Dean knew what he was doing; he was stalling for time. It was the smart play, but it also left Dean standing out here by himself facing down two thugs. They might look calm now, but that calmness was setting off alarm bells all by itself. He folded his arms and tried to look supremely unconcerned.

Luckily, Sammy didn't leave him hanging too long. He was back with paper towels and the whiskey from the first aid kit in moments. Avoiding any sudden movements, he took the knife from the guy who was looking more bemused than grumpy by now, and set about a way-more-thorough-than-necessary deep cleaning of every surface on the thing.

Finally he was done, and Dean took it and made little cuts on himself and his brother. The other guys had made inch-long gashes that would probably take weeks to heal, but Dean figured that was probably just macho showing off and, while it was tempting to make his own just as big in order to prove they couldn't outdo him, no way was he going to cut Sammy like that. So he made them as small as he could: the silver would show if there was anything screwy no matter how big the cuts were.

Well, he was pretty sure it would.

Anyway, the two men didn't object. They did ask if they could all get out of the hallway and back into the Winchesters' rooms, unless whatever had spooked the boys was still there, and Dean was so busy denying that they'd been spooked by anything that they wound up in the run-down little apartment before he could muster a proper defense. Oh, that had been smooth. He had to watch these guys.

The best defense was a good offense. "So, what are your real names, fellas?" He made sure to flick his eyes up and down them without showing the least hint that they impressed him. Even though they were really tall. And confident. And sculpted…

No. They were just a couple of busybody hunters, sniffing around. Like Dad couldn't handle one puny shifter in his sleep.

Medium-Tall gave a hard fake smile and Dean considered the possibility that he was a cop after all. "Need to know only, champ."

Gentle Giant shook his head. "Forgive him," he said long-sufferingly. "I'm Lance Bass, and my partner is Justin Timberlake."

Medium Tall —"Timberlake," what kind of name was that—had glared at his partner when he said his name, but whatever reason he'd had to want their names kept to themselves, he didn't say anything about it, and his partner just smirked at him.. "How 'bout you, kid? Got a handle?"

Dean folded his arms. "I'm Hans. And my little brother's Luke." Everybody rolled their eyes, even Sammy, the little traitor. But Dean didn't care if they believed him. "What were you hunting?" He shifted his attention to the tall one—"Bass." Bass seemed way nicer and less grouchy. Dean tried a winning smile on him, one he'd successfully deployed before. "Bet you know all about it, huh?"

"Sure," Bass said, smiling slow and deliberate back at him. His heart thumped an extra beat and he scowled. "But we'd really like to hear your version first. Unbiased observation, you know, it's so important to getting an accurate witness account." He held Dean's gaze. He was really stupidly attractive. No. Dean tried to properly fume at being outmaneuvered, again. These guys didn't miss a beat, and to make it even worse, his brain was starting to mull over whether it might be fun to get shoved up against a wall.

He liked girls. Mostly. His dick might have twitched at the thought of those broad-muscled arms surrounding him, but that was just because he was a teenager and his dick twitched at everything. It didn't mean…

Although, maybe there was a card he hadn't played yet. He'd gotten enough catcalls from lowlife assholes to know he had something to work with. He’d even worked with it before, on occasion, when necessary.

He looked down, then up through his lashes and licked his lips. "Yeah, not much to tell, you know. I heard a commotion in the bathroom, I went to investigate. She had short blonde hair and didn't try anything once I had my gun on her. Then my dad got there and took her out back." He edged a little farther from Timberlake, closer to Bass, and suggested, "My Dad's probably already killed whatever it was. So you could just head back where you came from, now, and leave me an' my brother alone."

Timberlake's gaze shifted to Sammy. Shit. Exactly what Dean didn't want. "How about you, kiddo?" At least he sounded gentler than when he was talking to Dean. "What did you see?"

"What he said," Sammy said, good boy that he was. His gaze kept shifting between them. "I woke up to a ruckus in the bathroom, so I hid behind the bed until Dean said. Then Dad got there and took care of it. Her. She didn't say anything or do anything."

"Hmm," Timberlake said. "So how did you know it was a monster and not just a human breaking in?"

Sammy obviously had no clue, but he didn't let that stop him. "Dean said it was," he declared confidently.

Everybody turned to look at Dean. At least the attention was off Sammy. "I just knew," he scowled.

"Hans," said Bass gently. "We really need to know what you saw. Was it the way she looked?"

And oh, fuck him for treating Dean like some clueless civilian. He wasn't and he hadn't been since he was four. And he didn't need to be coaxed. "It looked like my mom, okay?" He was pissed. Not just at Timberjerk for being in his face and Bass for, worse, treating him gently; but at the monster for messing with him in the first place. "Only my mom died eleven years ago, so it wasn't her. I was there," he added irritably, in case they were tempted to start spouting theories. Her death wasn’t faked. "And anyway, she didn't look any older."

Okay, so maybe, ever since seeing her, he'd been tempted to hope for a moment that, somehow, it might be her. But it didn't add up. She wouldn't have done that to them, letting them grow up without her, on the road, trying to find the thing that killed her, devoting their whole lives to it. And nothing about where they were now would have made it any easier for her to find than any other place. She hadn't looked any older. She hadn't acted like an evil monster, but what else could you call impersonating somebody just to make Dean's guts feel like there'd been a hole ripped in them and he was holding himself together with clenched knuckles?

"Okay," Bass said, trying to be soothing again or something. What did he know? He exchanged glances with his partner over Dean's head. Rude. "Want to go see what's up with…their dad? I'll get these guys settled, then catch up with you."

Timberlake nodded, then headed out the door in a hurry. He didn’t waste time.

Dean didn’t mind seeing the back of him, that was for sure.

Dean and Bass were left eyeing each other, until Sammy broke the silence. "So, are we just standing here, or what?"

"Let's get you settled," Dean decided. He looped an arm around Sammy's neck on the way to the bedroom, not giving Sammy a chance to protest or argue, which he did all the time, usually.

Once they were inside, the kid tried, of course, keeping his voice low enough hopefully not to be heard. "Seriously, Dean? We're just gonna let them walk off? He didn't even give us any answers!"

"Shh, I know," Dean said. "I'm gonna try to get more out of him, but I can't do it with you there. I've gotta lull him into thinking we're gonna behave. Can you stay in here and pretend to sleep?"

Sammy nodded, reluctantly. "Good luck, Dean. And…be careful, okay?"

"I have never had a reckless thought in my life," Dean said, smiling rakishly and tipping an imaginary hat. Unfortunately Sammy had to snort so hard with laughter he started coughing, so Dean pounded his back nice and hard, then took advantage of him being temporarily unable to breath to pick him up and dump him in an ungainly sprawl onto the bed. A quick yank of the bedclothes out from under him sent him rolling just as he was beginning to recover, still too breathless with laughter to get his legs under him, much less actually produce any words to protest the situation. A renewed gust of uncontrolled giggles came out instead. Dean finished off by pulling the blankets over his entire body including his face, adding the pillows on top, and then sitting on him, enjoying the thrashing and muffled protests.

A knock sounded at the door. "Everything okay in there?"

Dean hopped off and made it to the door before Sammy managed to get his head free. He opened the door a crack. "Yep, just getting him settled down. You want to talk?"

Bass was unfortunately so tall he could see into the room just fine over Dean's head, and he was eyeing the tangled mess on the bed dubiously. "Probably a good idea to go outside for it," he suggested dryly. "So we won't disturb your brother's rest."

"Suits me," Dean shrugged. It was what he'd wanted, anyway.

"Great," the strange hunter said. He turned and walked away, leaving Dean to scowl at his back and then skip to catch up.

“So, how did you track this thing? How’d you know to look for it here?” Dean asked, starting off easy.

"Oh, you know. Once you know a creature's habits, you can predict them pretty well."

And if that wasn't a vague non-answer in a long series of non-answers, Dean would eat his own boot. He stopped walking. They were in the hallway, out of earshot of Sammy but not yet close to the back door Dad would have taken to the parking lot.

"We answered your questions," Dean said, pissed. "The least you could do is tell us what that thing was, in case we ever run into something like it again."

Bass had stopped walking too, and stood there looking at Dean, only he wasn't so much looking at Dean seriously, like he was listening to what he was saying and about to agree that fair was fair, as he was looking at Dean and smiling fondly, like he thought Dean was cute. A puppy who'd shown off a new trick. A wave of resolve swept through Dean.

Just because this guy was tall and muscular and the hottest hunter Dean had ever seen didn't mean he shouldn't treat Dean like an adult. Dean knew things. All sorts of things.

"I wouldn't worry about running into a situation like this again," Bass was saying seriously, and oh, that was _it_. It was on.

"Yeah?" Dean took a couple steps closer, close enough to touch. "What was she gonna do? You don't turn up looking like somebody's dead loved one unless you want something real bad, and you've got no other way to get it." He swept his eyes up and down the hunter, making sure he noticed. "So what's her game? Distract somebody, then knock'em out and feed?"

"No." Bass was more wary now, trying to figure out what Dean was up to. Good.

"That wouldn't work on my dad, anyway. Is it seduction?" He pressed his luck, moving closer until he was standing so near that if Bass moved at all, they'd be touching. "Is she gonna try and get my dad to roll over for her, cause she's some kinda witch looking for jizz to work dark sex magic with?"

"Jesus, kid, no." Bass took a step back, but it wasn't a very big step, because the wall was at his back. "Did she act like she was trying to seduce anybody?" He demanded.

"Not really," Dean had to admit. "But that doesn't mean much. You could be trying to seduce me right now." He put on his very best pout, lips full and glancing up through his eyelashes, fake-shy. He bit his lower lip, letting it slide slow from his teeth, flushed and shiny.

Bass jerked with his whole body as he finally cottoned on to Dean's angle. "You…you can't…"

"I can," Dean assured him. "I bet you’ve never experienced anything like the way I could blow you before in your life…"

Bass had a really strange look on his face. "Um, I'm going to say I don’t think I’ve really been missing…"

"C'mon," Dean said, cutting him off by sliding a hand down his chest until he could trace the top of his jeans. "You want some of this." This was the part most likely to feature a punch being thrown.

But Bass was still looking poleaxed. It was weird, almost like no one had ever tried to hook up with him before, because he didn’t seem to have a clue what to do with the situation. Dean took another chance and pressed farther in, standing on tiptoes so he could whisper in his ear. "When did you last let somebody take care of you?"

And at last he'd hit a nerve. Bass drew himself impossibly taller, and put his hands on Dean's hips, turning them so Dean's back was to the wall instead of Bass's. But Dean had no time to enjoy it, because Bass was pulling away, using his solid grip to keep Dean from closing the space again. "My turn to take care of you for a change," he was muttering, which made no sense. He clearly wasn't offering to give Dean a blowjob.

"What's your damage, man," Dean complained. "You're hurting my feelings."

"It's not that you're not…attractive," Bass said, looking constipated.

"Ok, I'm really trying not to be insulted by that pause," Dean shot back. The way Bass's face was squinching up and contorting was really pretty funny.

"If you knew everything that…trust me, kid, this would be a very different conversation."

"One with sex involved?" Dean asked, unable to resist. Yeah, he'd been shot down, but…the guy didn’t not care about him, he could tell that much.

"You're young.” And for a minute, Bass's eyes looked old, too old, like he'd seen centuries pass. “Too young, kid. Go enjoy it. Stick to people your own age."

That look shook Dean, though he didn't want to admit it. "Well, yeah, but seriously, man. You gotta tell me something about this hunt. I need to know. Why…why my mom?" And dammit, a little of the hurt and confusion he'd been feeling all night was slipping out, and he couldn't stop Bass from seeing it, because his eyes were going all soft and compassionate for Dean.

"You and your mom had something special," he said finally, choosing words carefully. At least he was finally talking. "The thing about the supernatural is it tends to dig into all our deepest emotions. Hunting isn't just about killing evil things with too many teeth. It's about facing up to ourselves, what matters to us. It's about looking evil in the face and seeing what the truth is, and then choosing good.

"You saw your mom tonight because she matters to you. And I'm really glad you don't have to live with having pulled a trigger on her. We can leave it at that.” He smiled, a little painfully. “My partner and I will take care of the rest and be out of your hair."

* * *

When Dean got back into the room, Sammy wasn’t asleep, of course. He had something he tried to shove out of sight when the door opened, but when he saw it was just Dean he relaxed and brought it out again.

“Whatcha doing with the ham radio, Sammy?”

Sammy grinned at him. “I planted a radio broadcaster in their car.”

Dean had never believed in overthinking things when there was a clear course of action in front of him. “Let’s go.”

They got down to the parking lot just in time to see a dark blue 60’s Ford peeling out of the parking lot. “Isn’t that Mrs. Lester’s car?” Dean asked.

“I saw Timberlake jacking it before he went to talk to Dad,” Sammy explained. “I figured he was anticipating a quick getaway.”

“You’re the best,” Dean said. “Dad!”

John had been too busy standing and staring after the departed car to notice them, at first. He turned.

“Dad, we can track them!” Dean yelled. Sammy waved his radio over his head. They didn’t waste any more time, just ran to the Impala. Dean didn’t know what the range on Sam’s gadget was, but if they lost the signal they’d be screwed.

It was only after the car was in gear that Dean looked up and realized Dad hadn’t moved towards them. What was wrong with him?

They didn’t have time for whatever it was. Dean curved the car around through the lot to meet him, and Sammy threw the door open and scooted to the middle. “Get in!”

Finally, Dad made up his mind and swung into the passenger seat. Dean was flooring the gas before the door was even closed.

* * *

Mary got out of the blue Ford. Dean and Sam did, too, slamming their doors with prejudice: Sam because his head had kept bumping the ceiling, and Dean because he seemed to hate any car that wasn’t the Impala on general principle. They looked grimly at the storage facility they had come to.

“Castle on a hill,” Dean said. “You got the key?”

“Haven't lost it in the last fifty miles,” Mary said. “You think John’ll notice it's missing soon?”

“Probably,” Sam said.

“But we’ve got time,” Dean said. “Let’s not waste it.”

They knew where they were going. As Mary inserted the key into the door lock, Dean warned, “Careful. Dad boobytrapped it, a tripwire with a gun, who knows what else.”

She nodded. It wasn’t out of character for a paranoid old hunter; it was just painful to picture from the John she’d fallen in love with and married.

People changed. She pushed the door open carefully, braced to move suddenly; but there was nothing. Warily, they entered. There was no tripwire; he must not have installed that yet. Didn’t mean there wasn’t anything. Sam found the light and turned it on.

A quick scan revealed no traps or nasty surprises. But Mary gasped as she kept looking around. She couldn’t take her eyes off what she was seeing.

Childish drawings adorned the walls and covered a corkboard above a desk. Clumsily painted clay figurines and popsicle-stick structures sat on a shelf. A bike with training wheels and a larger one without leaned against a wall; there was a box of toddler toys and stuffed animals, more boxes with schoolwork and books, a bin stuffed haphazardly with pictures and film negatives. She picked it up.

“Oh, no way!” Dean exclaimed. “I used to love this truck!” He was holding a red plastic fire engine, clearly designed for a small child to scoot around in. “Sammy, I kept putting you on the back, only you were like one and kept falling off.”

Sam was looking at a jigsaw puzzle framed on the wall. “I remember doing this,” he said, sounding surprised. The picture showed a litter of puppies tumbling over each other. “It took like two weeks and I was terrified the whole time we’d have to pick up and move before I got done. I finished it and Dad announced we had to be in the car in the morning. I had no idea he saved it.”

“Yeah, your teacher was about to bring child services down on our necks because you were so terrified of ‘Dad taking you away’ you weren’t sleeping so you could work on the stupid thing,” Dean said. “You’re lucky I didn’t just jam all the pieces together with glue.”

“I’d never done a thousand-piece one before,” Sam protested.

“Neither have most other eight-year-olds, and they somehow still live,” Dean retorted.

“Is this a tape player?” Mary asked, holding up a Walkman.

Dean grinned. “Man, I wore out half a dozen tapes on that thing, listening over and over, until Dad said I couldn’t take the family ones anymore and I’d have to buy my own.”

They’d left the door to the storage unit wide open. _Amateurs,_ Dean thought, only he wished he knew what they were. They weren’t state troopers, but he wasn’t sure anymore if they were hunters, either. Maybe they were monsters, shifters like the one who’d broken into their rooms. Only what kind of monster just showed up, had a conversation, and then made a getaway? He’d think this was some kind of trap, only they couldn’t have counted on being followed. Nobody would count on Sammy slipping a tracker into their car.

Dad had gotten really quiet as it became apparent they were going straight for this storage place, not that you could tell unless you knew him as well as Dean did, because he’d barely said two words since whatever had happened with the thing that looked like Mom. But Dean nonetheless got the feeling that Dad knew something about this place, even before he set off confidently to a particular unit as soon as they got out of the car. Dean was sticking close behind him with Sammy behind them; Dad had been too distracted even to tell Sammy to wait in the car, and Dean hadn’t said anything when Sammy followed them because he didn’t want them separated. Something about this case was really weird.

They could hear voices floating out from the door John was beelining towards, confirming that the three they were looking for were here. Yeah, Sammy and Dean had tracked their car to the parking lot, but that didn’t explain how Dad knew which unit they’d be at. As they got closer, they started to make out what they were saying.

“So then he’s holding his arm, sitting on my handlebars, and screaming bloody murder every time we go over a bump, and I’m just praying we can get to the emergency room before we fall over, and I’m sure everyone we passed thought he was being murdered or something, but we get to the hospital and they’re like, ‘where are your parents,’ and I’m all, ‘can’t you see his arm is broken, fix it,’ and meanwhile Sammy’s in full-on meltdown all over the floor…”

“You hit every pothole on the way there. I swear, Mom, he was swerving all over the road like he’d learned to ride that bike the day before…”

Dean, following his Dad’s footsteps closely, stopped dead. “Mom?” he mouthed soundlessly, turning to Sammy to check what he’d heard.

“How could they know that stuff?” Sammy asked in a barely-there whisper.

“Maybe they’re mind-readers,” Dean guessed. It didn’t make sense; nothing made sense.

Dad hadn’t stopped, and now he was just stepping into the room.

“You couldn’t have just asked?” he said, sounding...hurt. Why did he sound hurt? Dean hurried to the doorway, trying to angle so he could peek in without being seen. He caught Sammy automatically behind his arm, not letting him by.

“We didn’t want to risk you finding out too much,” the voice that sounded so much like Mom said. “I’m sorry. You deserved better from me.”

“Hey, Dad,” the tall guy, whose name probably wasn't Lance Bass, said. “It's been a while.”

“Sammy,” John said. “You got tall. But the boys—you—should have recognized you. I should have recognized Dean when he came to get Mary. How come we didn't?”

Dean’s brain wasn’t working properly. Dad couldn’t possibly mean...no way...they would have known, they would have been able to tell…

In the room, the men were holding their wrists up, showing a large metal charm dangling from each. “Anti-recognition charms,” the shorter one was saying, and that asshole couldn’t possibly be an older version of him. Could it? “No effect if you know who the person you’re talking to is, and it doesn’t change what a face looks like, but you could stare at that face all day if you don’t expect a person, and not recognize your own twin.”

“Fancy,” John said. “Not to get right down to it, but what are you doing here? Besides scaring my boys and lifting my keys and Mrs. Lester’s car?”

His tone was the kind of mild that made any explanation you were about to give seem only half as good as it had before, and Dean could see—okay, fine, his older self—working possible responses to that question in his head and discarding them. God, was he always so transparent? This was beyond weird.

“Family roadtrip,” the tall one said. He had a wry twist to his mouth, as with a joke that’d worn thin with too many years on it. No way was his Sammy going to get that tall: taller than Dean, taller than _Dad_ , even—only now that he looked for it, he couldn’t unsee Sammy’s face in the stranger’s: older, broader, graver, but the cheekbones were the same, and the eyes were Sammy’s eyes. “See the sights, play tourist.” His eyes flicked to the door, and Dean couldn't jerk back out of sight in time. “You might as well come on in, Dean. Sammy.”

“You _brought_ them?” The older Dean looked accusingly at Dad. “We could've been anybody!”

“More like we brought him,” Dean said, folding his arms in challenge to his older self. He couldn't believe that guy went around being a dick like that all the time, and anyways, he and Sammy were totally capable of handling themselves. “We were the ones who tracked you here, and also what the he- heck,” and for the first time he dared to really look at the person in the room who had started all this. “Is that really Mom?” And dammit, his voice had gone all small and he couldn't do anything about it.

“Not a shifter,” she said, smiling at him. “It’s me, honey.”

Sammy was staring, from behind Dean. “I thought you’d be older,” he said.

“Time travel,” Tall Sam shrugged. “Can’t say much else.”

“Can I,” Mary asked, “can I hug you?”

“If this is some kind of joke…” Dean started, but then his face was crumpling and he was rushing forward, because at least if he was gonna cry…

And then he was burying his face in his Mom’s shoulder and her arms were wrapping around him, and she even smelled the same as she used to and he hadn’t realized he even remembered how she smelled.

It was only after a long moment that he opened his eyes again and registered Sammy standing awkwardly to the side. He felt Mom looking at him too. “It’s up to you if you want a hug, too,” she said. “I know you probably don’t remember anything about me. But I remember holding you, and I only ever wanted the best life I could give you.”

Dean pulled away just far enough to say, “Don’t be dumb, Sammy. C’mere.” He held out an arm and Sammy came in, cautious and solemn as the kid ever was.

Dean could see his Dad from the corner of his eye, blinking back tears, and he could see the older Sam and Dean exchanging looks that were saying a lot. Most of it Dean couldn’t read. Mostly, right now, he didn’t care what they were thinking as much as he cared about soaking in the feel of his mom’s hug.

At last they pulled apart with a few awkward coughs. Mary smiled at them both. “God, you’ve grown so much,” she said, brushing a bit of Sammy’s hair off his forehead. “Both of you,” she smiled at Dean.

“Yeah, not as much as he’s going to grow, apparently,” Dean muttered, shooting a glance at Tall Sam, unable to resist. Then his face went pale as he realized. Oh God, he’d propositioned his little brother a few hours ago! No wonder “Bass” had been so taken aback. Blood started rushing back into his cheeks as he recalled details. Fuck, he’d thought Bass was so hot. He’d never thought of Sammy as hot. Sammy was a kid. His brain was going to combust from the dissonance, if the way the skin on his face was flaming now was any indication. He could see Tall Sam reading what he was thinking about on his face, and oh fuck, he wanted to sink into the floor.

John cleared his throat and Dean had never been so grateful in his life for a distraction. “Can you tell us…is it better in the future? Do things get better?” He sounded a little hoarse.

Tall Sam and Dean’s grumpier older self exchanged more of those unreadable glances. “We’re not here to change anything,” Sam finally said. “It was a long, hard, crappy road getting to where we are now, but where we are now is good, Dad, I promise.”

Dick Dean nodded, looking serious. “We did it, Dad. Listen, even when you're going through hell, remember: the game's not over. You will get your chance.”

Tall Sam shot him a look, like maybe he thought that might’ve been saying too much.

John nodded, though. “I’ll remember,” he said. “But... you’re still hunting? I always thought, once we didn’t have to anymore…” He looked at Mary, questioning. “When I found your family’s stuff, after you died, I understood—you must have known all about hunting.”

Dean and Sammy gasped quietly. Mom had known?

Dad was still talking. “But I also knew you, and I knew the kind of life you’d wanted was the life you had with me. You’d rejected what your family did, packed it away.”

“But you raised them up in it anyway,” she said quietly. “No, don’t apologize. Running away from it didn’t work out very well for me, did it? And you all had to bear the consequences.” She looked around the room at them all, her children and the jigsaw pieces of their lives.

“There are no easy answers, John. Sometimes we have to do it the hard way.”

“I thought I remembered every day how much I loved you,” he said. “But it wasn’t this much. God, Mary, I miss you,” and then they were moving towards each other and kissing and…

“Ugh,” Sammy said, half-laughing, “Suddenly I know how other kids feel when they complain about their parents being gross. Did I really need to experience this?” He looked at Dean to share the joke, and they exchanged eye-rolls with their older counterparts, which was still weird, but kind of fun, too.

“I dunno, Sammy, you were always the one saying how much you wanted a well-balanced childhood,” Dick Dean teased. “You sure you’re not changing your mind?”

“All right, all right!” Sammy raised his hands, “Point made. Now, can we talk about Christmas plans or something?”

“What plans?” Dean jumped in, with teenage enthusiasm for anything that wasn’t kissing. His blush had finally mostly receded. “Dad’s been looking for our next hunt every morning in the news, and he’s going to finally agree I’m old enough to go with him, and you’re going to get to prove you can take care of yourself by sitting quietly at our motel and not getting into trouble.”

“I could take care of myself just fine back in Rockview,” Sammy protested. “And anyway, we know people there so I wouldn’t be alone…”

“Oh, people like _Stephanie_?” Dean asked, managing to make it sound like Stephanie probably kidnapped stray children for a hobby instead of playing soccer on Sam’s team and inviting him to Thanksgiving at her house.

Mary interrupted. “Hang on,” she said, looking at John. At least they weren’t kissing any more. “ _Are_ you really going to let Dean hunt with you?”

“It’s come up a few times,” John said, graciously understating the truth, which was that Dean had been bringing it up every time he got half a chance for the past year. “He’s close to ready, but I haven’t told him yes.”

“C’mon, Dad! After the way we tracked these guys down? And I’ll be sixteen in a month! Men used to join the army at sixteen!”

“This isn’t the army,” John said, a well-rehearsed response to a repeated argument. “It’s just us, and you’re not putting your neck out there in front of ghosts and monsters and God knows what else until I say you’re ready.”

“Didn’t you miss Dad’s ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times’ voice?” Dick Dean muttered to Tall Sam, grinning out of the side of his mouth. He was just loud enough to be heard.

“You’ve got an opinion to contribute, Dean?” John asked.

“No, sir,” Dean said, grinning even bigger and throwing a comedically sloppy salute. “Ready when you say ready, sir.”

“Right,” John said. He relaxed, shaking his head fondly. “Mary, you were saying? Do you not think I should let him hunt yet?”

She hesitated. “I was younger than him when I went on my first hunt,” she said finally. “And I hated it. Nightmares for years. But then, I had cousins who had no problems with it. I can’t tell you what’s right,” she shrugged. “I haven’t gotten to watch Dean grow up. I hate that hunting has to be part of your lives, but I’m so proud of you for being good at it. Everything I’ve seen out of Dean tonight—his reactions are sharp, he keeps a cool head—tells me he’d be good. But being good doesn’t mean it won’t take a toll, and it doesn’t mean he can’t die out there.”

He nodded seriously. “Believe me, I know. I’ve seen good men go down. I’m as safe as I can possibly be, so I can come back to my boys every time, but…”

“But hunting’s a hell of a lot safer with two,” older Dean said. He’d stopped projecting asshole vibes for the moment, and it made him look startlingly open. “It’s okay, Dad. Growing up fast was my job. Somebody had to take care of you, too.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Mary said.

“Demons should never have walked the earth,” Tall Sam said. “How far back do we take it? What matters is what we do about what’s in front of us.”

“That’s not fair,” Sammy said. “You can’t just ignore awful things that happened because they’re in the past.”

Tall Sam looked at him. Sammy was barely half his height; it was like a giant taking notice of a dwarf. Then he squatted down to look Sammy in the eye.

“Sometimes you have to,” he said. “Even the worst. I knew somebody once. I got to know him way better than I ever wanted to, because he wasn’t nice or good at all. I made it my job to deal with him so that nobody else would have to. And you know what I learned from being around him for so long?”

Sammy shook his head no. They could have heard a pin drop in that room, but nobody moved.

“When you hang on to all your crap, eventually you end up surrounded by crap. It keeps accumulating until it surrounds you and all you see is crap and all you know is crap. The only way to escape is to unclench,” Sam opened his fist, demonstrating, “and let it go. Once you stop hanging onto it so hard, then it can turn into other things. It can go mix with other dirt and stink less and decompose properly into fertilizer. It can even feed new things growing up out of it. But it won’t ever start anything if you don’t stop clinging to it because it’s the only thing you remember how to live with.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sammy asked, shaken. “I thought you didn’t want to change things for the future?”

Sam closed his before he spoke, just for a beat. “Because it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Dean and I don’t remember ever being in this place before we were grown up. So I’m not really telling you for you, I’m just saying it for me.” He looked up at his older brother. “We should probably wrap this up.”

“I don’t understand…” Sammy said. It sounded ominous. Dean chimed in.

“What the hell are you talking about? Why wouldn’t you remember all this if you’re really us?”

“We came prepared,” and oh, Dick Dean was back.

“What the blazes is that,” John said sharply, looking at the iridescent powder Dean was displaying in his hand.

“Removes the last couple hours of someone’s memory,” Dick Dean said casually, and _oh_. Oh, no way. Dean started backing towards the door, trying to angle to pull Sammy with him, but Tall Sam was there, blocking their exit like a big pile of _rock_ , and Dean couldn’t believe he’d ever liked that guy, because clearly he was an _even bigger bag of dicks than his brother_ , and Dean was in a position to know.

“Hold still, this won’t hurt at all,” Sam assured them.

Dick Dean got an unholy gleam in his eye like he’d just thought up a terrible joke and he was going to tell it regardless of how bad the time was for it.

Dean vowed to himself that he would never ever crack jokes at inappropriate times after this, if he made it through and could remember the feeling of staring at his own face being a gleeful, transparent jerk.

“After all,” the Dean who was approaching them with a handful of magic dust said, “we’d only be hurting ourselves.”

Sammy and Dean were waiting for their dad in the Impala. He was standing about fifty feet away talking to a couple of guys Dean didn’t know. They could be fellow hunters, by the way they dressed and the quiet intensity of whatever they were saying to Dad; mostly, Dean was more concerned with trying to figure out why he was feeling a little weird and if it had anything to do with his stomach insisting that he hadn’t eaten since at least yesterday. He frowned. He didn’t remember getting here.

“Are you really hungry for some reason?” Sammy asked him, and Dean set his own problems on the back burner. Sammy needed food.

“There’s a drivethrough across the street I can see from here,” Dean said. “If Dad’s going to be a lot longer, we could just zip over there and back.” He squinted to see if Dad was showing any signs of wrapping up the conversation; luckily, with just a few more serious comments to each other, the men separated and the strangers headed back into the building. Dean thought he saw a third person waiting there for them in the shadows of the door, watching, but he couldn’t make out anything about them. And anyway, Dad was coming towards them now and getting into the car.

“Hey kiddos, how’re you doing?”

“Hungry,” Dean said immediately. “Can we get lunch?”

“Sure,” John said. “Lunch, and then do you think you can drive the Impala back to Rockview, Dean? I’ve got to drive Mrs. Lester’s car back.”

“Yeah!” Dean said immediately, “Of course I can drive!” Then he paused. “Hey, Dad? Why is Mrs. Lester’s car here? Why don’t I remember where we are?”

“You boys got a little mind-whammied, I’m afraid,” Dad said. “Short-term memory loss. If you notice anything other than that, let me know right away, okay?”

“Did you get the thing that did it?” Sammy asked.

John looked out the window, back the way the other hunters had gone. “Everything’s taken care of, I guess. Nothing for you to worry about now.”

Sammy frowned. “That means we’re never gonna find out the whole story, doesn’t it?” he complained.

Dean held his breath, unwilling to push for answers but still hoping to get them.

John seemed oddly pensive, but he ruffled Sammy’s hair and gave Dean a little smile in the mirror. “Maybe someday, when you’re old enough.”

And that was all he’d say, though they did get pretty awesome burgers for lunch.

* * *

After John and Mary had said their goodbyes—Dean and Sam tactfully removed themselves and their dozing younger selves out to the car to give them some time to themselves—and as they were walking John out to the car, Mary standing stiff and suspiciously bright-eyed just out of view of the Impala, Sam put his hand on John’s arm. John flinched, half-expecting to be dosed with the same powder, but Sam just wanted to stop walking and talk.

“I was pretty mad at you for years, for the way we grew up,” Sam said. “And after I got over it, well. I never really got to tell you I understood, and that it was okay.”

John had gotten the impression before that however far in the future they were from, he wasn’t still around. He was okay with it; he hadn’t been particularly expecting to make it to old age ever since he started this hunting gig. He looked at Dean, who was studying the ground and not saying anything.

“Dean’s still a little mad,” Sam said, his tone light. “Probably from repressing his feelings too much.”

Dean stopped glaring at the ground long enough to throw a half-hearted look at Sam, but still didn’t say anything. John winced.

“The thing is,” Sam continued, “this war that our family’s been fighting for longer than any of us know about, this war’s as big as it gets, Dad. And all of us do what we have to do. So you were hard on us. Going easy wouldn’t have been doing us any favors in the long run.”

“Dean doesn’t look like he agrees,” John observed.

“The last thing you ever tell Dean is that he's gonna have to either save me or kill me,” Sam said calmly, and waited for the words to sink in, which they seemed strangely reluctant to do, sliding across the surface of his brain and refusing to make sense.

He registered Dean jerking his head up to stare at Sam, though. Whatever he’d been expecting his brother to say, this wasn’t it.

“It was true,” Sam went on. “There’s a whole bunch of messy prophecy I won’t burden you with the details of, but it all boils down to a cemetery and the fate of the world, and the choices Dean and I made to get there.”

“How could I…” John whispered. “No, I don’t care if it’s true, I still wouldn’t say that to Dean.”

“I’m telling you it’s okay, Dad,” Sam said gently. “It had to be said. I needed you to say it. I came too close to the wrong road as it was. And it bound us closer together, as it turned out, and believe me, we needed every bit of that closeness in the end.”

Dean was still staring at Sam, shock and a number of other emotions washing over his features.

“Sam—you can’t just —”

“I just did, Dean,” Sam said, still calm.

And finally Dean looked at John, and yeah, he’d been mad about this, had been for years if John knew him at all. But he said, “Can’t argue with him,” clipped and short.

“It’s tough, arguing with Sam,” John said cautiously. He wasn’t agreeing, didn’t want to agree.

Dean snorted, and then his eyes widened and he shot a look back at his brother. “Dammit, Sam! You set me up!”

“How?” John asked, mind racing down the convoluted loops of their conversation.

“Because if I do agree with Sam that it had to be said,” Dean said, seriously, “and if he was the one who told you to say it in the first place, well, then I have to forgive you.” Dean scowled at Sam. “He did this on purpose.”

But Sam was smiling. “So, are you going to?”

Dean and John exchanged looks. “Gotta admire a well-formulated strategy,” John said.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, and he couldn’t squash the little smile that was starting to grow. They were both proud of Sam; that was a pretty good tether to start with.

* * *

Once Sam and Dean rejoined Mary, it didn’t take long to find the nearest door and draw the spell on it; the spell ingredients for their return had been the first thing they’d thought of bringing. The ideas for the recognition charms and amnesia dust had followed.

Dean had powered the spell on the way here, so Sam provided the blood for the spell back; it was easier than waiting a week for Dean’s soul energy to recharge. And with a crackle of electric magic in the air and a flash of light, they were spilling out of the kitchen doorway in the bunker just as they’d left it, clocks reading the same as they had when they left.

* * *

One of their oldest post office boxes was still in Kansas. They didn’t check it very often, but there was a letter there the next time they did that made Sam exclaim out loud. “What the hell!”

Dean looked up, and when Sam mutely held out an envelope, he took it. But he nearly dropped it when he got a good look at the handwriting on the front.

“That’s from Dad!” he said incredulously.

Mary’s head jerked up. “John?”

“How would he even know what year to send it to?” Sam asked incredulously. “We never told him the date!”

“We don’t know for sure it’s related to our little adventure,” Dean said judiciously.

“We won’t find out talking about it,” Mary pointed out. “You going to open it or should I?”

He shrugged and handed it to her. “Do the honors?”

There was nothing on the envelope but John’s clear, plain, familiar handwriting; still, she slid her finger along the seam while ripping as little as possible.

What fell out were three letters, one with each of their names on it, and an old Polaroid photo, colors already muted from twenty years folded in paper.

Dean picked the picture up. “I don’t even remember him taking this,” he said. In the picture, he and Sammy were fighting to see who could get wrapping ribbons and bows stuck in stupider-looking ways in the other’s hair. Everybody seemed to be on the losing side of the battle. John was taking the picture rather than in it, but you could still see his feet propped up on the ratty recliner that had furnished their little apartment in Rockview. There was a bright red bow precariously perched on his toes.

On the back of the photo, John had written, “For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool…”

The End


End file.
